


I must down to the seas again

by katherine_tag



Series: Author's Favorites [5]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, MerMay, Rated Mature for Murder, Selkies, a fic about dreamshare criminals in which they do not dream even a little bit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:41:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24993265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katherine_tag/pseuds/katherine_tag
Summary: As a child, he had spent a lot of time with Mrs. MacConnell, their neighbor down the way. Not just because she always had the best biscuits, though that was a large part of his reasoning at eight, but also because she told the best stories. She had moved to London from the Orkney Islands at the insistence of her daughter, but she had never seemed old or even infirm to Eames. She had told him tales of finfolk, of trows and faeries, of ghosts, witches, and vanishing isles. And tales of the selkie folk, the gentle seal people, who changed into beautiful humans and danced on the beaches in the moonlight.
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Series: Author's Favorites [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1848181
Comments: 14
Kudos: 47





	I must down to the seas again

Yusuf called Eames at 3pm on a Tuesday. "Package for you," he said. His voice was both muffled and echoey at the same time, which Eames took to mean he was on speaker.

"Who's it from?" Eames drained the last of his coffee and stood up from his chair. A couple of tourists had been hovering for the last ten minutes, and they eagerly rushed over to claim the table.

There was a clattering noise, and Yusuf swore, but then he picked up the phone and his voice was clear. "There's no return address."

"Well," Eames said, drawing out the word as he dodged around two laughing teenagers on his way back to his hotel, "is it ticking?"

Yusuf didn't laugh. "Not that I can tell," he said seriously. "I didn't see who dropped it off; it was just out on the stoop."

"I can't think of anyone in particular who wants me dead at the moment," Eames said. "It's probably fine."

"'Probably' isn't good enough," Yusuf said. "Also, it worries me that people who want you dead may think you live here."

"I'm in Nairobi." Eames stepped into the cool air of the lobby. After the noise of the street, his footsteps on the tiled floor echoed loudly as he crossed to the elevators. "I can be there in -" he checked his watch "- six hours."

"What am I supposed to do until then?"

Eames pushed the call button. "Don't blow up."

\---

The shop was dark when Eames arrived, and he let himself in the front door. The bell above the door jangled and he winced.

Yusuf wrenched open the inner door that led to his apartment. He was haloed in the light and Eames blinked to adjust his eyes. "No wonder people think you live here," Yusuf complained. "I never gave you a key."

Eames shrugged. "You need better locks." He flicked the bell. "And a better warning system. Let's see that package, yeah?"

The package was from Arthur. Eames looked at it, sitting on Yusuf's table. It was wrapped in brown paper, discolored on one side from water damage. Arthur's neat, blocky handwriting spelled out his name and Yusuf's address on the top. It was a fairly large package, almost half a meter square. Eames hummed and put his hand on the top.

"It doesn't seem to have any mechanical parts inside," Yusuf said. At Eames glance, he added, "One of my mates has a portable x-ray. Like I said, 'probably' isn't good enough."

"Nothing for it, then." Eames took out his pocket knife and slit the tape at the corner, drawing the paper off the top, then slitting the tape of the box underneath. It was clearly re-used, since it had previously contained a rice cooker. Inside the box was another box, this one rectangular, heavy, and wooden, with a simple metal clasp in the front. It was made of some kind of light colored wood, and was completely unadorned, the top smooth and shining in the overhead light. There was a note on top of the box, also in Arthur's distinctive hand: 'keep it safe'.

Eames hummed again. He put the note in his pocket and folded the flaps on the box closed, ripping the rest of the paper off. 

"Aren't you going to see what's inside?" Yusuf cocked his head to one side, frowning. 

"No, I don't think so." Eames slung his travel bag over one shoulder and hefted the box. It was just large and heavy enough to be awkward to carry with only one arm. 

There was something strange going on, something he didn't quite understand yet. He and Arthur had had their moments over the years, some more friendly than others, but he hadn't heard a peep from the man since the inception job, six months ago. No one had, not that Eames had been looking. Not that he had asked around, discreetly, of course, even casually dropping in on Ariadne finishing her last semester in Paris.

He had half expected to come home to Mombasa from Los Angeles and find Arthur already in his flat, finally free of Dom's grief. There had been a time they had been moving in that direction, he thought, but that was years ago now, before the Cobb's relationship had imploded and Arthur had become colder, distant, the bags under his eyes seemingly permanent.

But instead Arthur had disappeared, vanished as efficiently as he had run most jobs. Gone to ground, Eames had thought, perhaps taking a vacation. Arthur could take care of himself. This, though. He was starting to wonder if he should be worried.

"Thanks, Yusuf."

Yusuf, still frowning, let him out the front door of the shop with the box, but didn't ask him any more questions. Instead, he said, "I'm not a courier service, Eames. Next time someone sends you something, I'm going to sell it on eBay."

"You're a true friend," Eames said, distracted. He had almost reached the corner of the alley where he had parked the hired car when Yusuf called his name. He turned, walking a few steps backward.

"Be careful." Yusuf's face was hard to read in the dim light.

"Always am," Eames said. 

When he got to his flat, the front door was cracked open, still quivering slightly in a non-existent breeze. He stopped on the landing and set the rice cooker box down, his bag on top. He texted Yusuf, then shoved his phone in his pocket so his hands were free. He wasn't armed. He had gone straight from the airport to Yusuf's shop.

He took a deep breath; the tang of chili and coconut lingered in the humid air of the hallway. He pushed the door fully open, tense, and took a quick look around the door jamb. The living room was empty. So was the bedroom, closet, and, when he thought to check, the bathroom. He went back out into the hallway, which was clear and quiet. Shouldering his bag again, he picked up the box, kicking the door shut behind him.

It didn't look like anything was out of place. The lock was intact, and he slid the security chain closed after dropping his bag on his bed with the box. They must have been looking for the box. It was too much of a coincidence otherwise. 

He took a shower while he decided what to do. If whoever was looking for what Arthur had sent him had broken in, they weren't likely to come back, unless they also were watching Yusuf's shop. He couldn't risk it, he decided. A hotel would do in a pinch. He'd check in, get some sleep and start fresh in the morning.

He was woken up out of a dead sleep by a low thud and then a muffled curse. Eames rolled off the bed and into a crouch on the floor. One of the paranoid habits he had picked up over the years was leaving his suitcase in front of the hotel door. Someone had just come in.

There was a metallic snick as the door latched, cutting off the bright triangle of light from the hallway. Amateur, Eames thought. Sloppy.

His fingers touched his double sided knife under the bed and gripped it. He crept around the edge of the bed still in a crouch, eyes searching out the shadowed figure carefully stepping over his suitcase. Eames didn't think this was the same person who had broken into his apartment earlier. That had been a professional job, neat and tidy. 

Eames waited, breathing steadily. The man stopped abruptly at the end of the bed, finally noticing it was empty. While he was distracted, Eames struck, staying low and bowling the man over with a shoulder to his gut. His head bounced hard on the floor and his body went lax, unconscious. "Amateur," Eames said. He stood, then froze as the light clicked on.

The man he'd missed in the dark stood at the end of the short hallway with one hand still on the lightswitch, the other holding a gun pointed at Eames. 

He let the knife drop to the floor before raising his hands placatingly. 

"Where is it?" the other man asked in English. He had an Afrikaner accent.

"Where is what?" Eames asked, and took a step forward.

"His skin. Give it to me and I'll let you live." 

Eames blinked. What on God's green earth had Arthur sent him? The mystery deepened with each passing hour, apparently. "I don't have it any more," he said.

That took the man by surprise, and the gun wavered slightly. It was all the opening Eames needed. He knocked the man's hand into the wall with his left arm and caught the gun in his right hand as it fell, bringing it up and shooting the man in the chest in one smooth movement. The pop of the silencer sounded loud in the quiet room, and he paused, breathing until his heart rate slowed to normal again. 

The gun was unmarked, serial numbers filed off. Eames thought for a moment longer before turning to the unconscious man, still out cold, on the hotel room floor.

Grunting, he lifted the man up by his shoulders and dragged him over to the bed. He stripped him down to his boxers with effort and wrestled him under the sheet. He left the clothes in a heap on the floor and dropped the contents of the man's pockets, a sad collection of coins and wrinkled bills, on the nightstand. No wallet, no I.D.

As Eames expected, he had a gun with a silencer, just like his co-conspirator. He took the gun and went to stand at the end of the hallway where the other man had fallen. He wiped the gun down with his singlet and pulled off the dead man's right glove, slipping it onto his own hand. 

"Sorry, mate." He shot the man in the bed twice in the chest with ruthless efficiency, then put the glove and the gun back in the man's hand, making sure his finger was on the trigger.

The man in the hallway didn't have an I.D. either, but he did have a keycard in one of his pockets. It was emblazoned with a logo Eames recognized with a sinking feeling. Cobol Enterprises. Of course. After Cobb's little stunt they had been quiet for a while, but it seems they thought revenge was a dish best served cold.

He finished staging the scene by placing the gun he had used to shoot the man in the hallway on the floor next to the bed, after making sure the man's prints were all over it. He couldn't do anything about the gunshot residue, but he didn't think the coppers would care too much. On the surface, it looked good, and that's what mattered. He surveyed his handiwork, hands on hips, with a critical eye, nodding to himself before getting dressed in the clothes he had worn to the hotel.

It had been late when he checked in, and he didn't think the staff had been paying much attention. Hopefully they would just assume that Mort Emerson was the man in the bed. It would burn one of his aliases, but it wouldn't hold up to much scrutiny in any case. It hadn't been his best work.

He pulled the box out from under the bed where he had stashed it and set it on the dresser. The wood was smooth under his hands, the metal of the clasp cold under his fingers. He flipped the clasp up and lifted the lid.

It was some kind of fur, dark gray with lighter spots. It filled the entire box. He lifted it out, lighter than he expected, the fur dense and flat under his fingers. He shook it out, holding it up in front of himself and staring into the mirror. It was a seal skin, actually, complete with flippers and a tail, about six feet long. It was beautifully preserved, even the head. There were still whiskers attached. 

"What the bloody hell," he murmured. 

He laid the fur over the box and trailed his fingers over it. _Where is his skin_ , the man had said, before Eames had shot him.

As a child, he had spent a lot of time with Mrs. MacConnell, their neighbor down the way. Not just because she always had the best biscuits, though that was a large part of his reasoning at eight, but also because she told the best stories. She had moved to London from the Orkney Islands at the insistence of her daughter, but she had never seemed old or even infirm to Eames. She had told him tales of finfolk, of trows and faeries, of ghosts, witches, and vanishing isles. And tales of the selkie folk, the gentle seal people, who changed into beautiful humans and danced on the beaches in the moonlight.

"Impossible," Eames said. 

\---

Eames found Arthur in Odessa at an outdoor cafe, despite the horrifically cold wind sweeping off the harbor. He was wearing a parka, which almost covered up the cast on his left wrist, a bright green that Eames was certain Arthur never would have picked had he had a choice. He looked tired, too; the shadows under his eyes that he was never without were darker than usual. There was a barely imperceptible, yellowing bruise fading on his cheekbone. He had a toque pulled over his ears and looked impossibly young.

He pulled out the metal chair across from Arthur with a screech and sat down, setting his duffle on the ground, but keeping his travel bag securely over his shoulders. "Hullo," he said cheerfully, as if Arthur was expecting him.

Arthur scowled at him. "What are you doing here, Eames?" he demanded.

"I was worried." It was the truth, though he doubted Arthur would believe him. He had done a discreet bit of asking around in Mombasa before flying to Cairo and cashing in a big favor with a friend at Interpol to disappear. She hadn't been happy, but she had done what he'd asked. As far as he knew, Cobol was still chasing its tail around the African continent.

"Also, I thought you might want this back." He nudged the duffle with his toe.

Arthur glanced down at the bag and closed his eyes, his mouth tight. "I thought I told you to keep it safe." He opened his eyes to glare at Eames. "Keeping it safe does not mean bringing it to me, Eames!"

"I couldn't very well leave it anywhere, could I, Arthur? Christ."

"You opened it." Arthur's voice was soft, but his face was hard. He stared past Eames out at the harbor. 

"Well, yes, darling, after I killed the two men who broke into my hotel room I was a bit bloody curious."

Arthur blinked at that, his mouth tightening. "Sorry," he said.

"Don't be." Eames stole Arthur's coffee. He took a sip, wrinkling his nose at the sugary taste and putting the cup back on the table. 

"You're okay?" Arthur asked.

"Better than you." Eames gestured toward Arthur's arm. He decided not to mention he had burned through two perfectly good and one mediocre covers before he had found Arthur. They were silent for a minute. "I thought you were Jewish," Eames finally said.

Arthur pulled the mug toward himself and kept his good hand on it. "Only on my dad's side. My granddad went to Scotland after the war. My parents immigrated to the US before I was born." 

Eames tried not to look completely gobsmacked. It was the most information he had ever heard Arthur voluntarily share about himself. "So then your mother ..." he trailed off and made a wiggling motion with one of his hands, like a fish swimming through water.

Arthur finally met Eames's eyes with his own. "I'm surprised you got there so fast, Eames. You're taking this pretty well."

"I am not," Eames said. "I'm absolutely bursting with questions, honestly. A selkie, Arthur, really? How on earth did you hide it all these years?"

"Selchie," Arthur said almost absently, his voice softening the word and taking on a lilt that sounded foreign to Eames's ears. "I have really good security."

"I suppose that's why you've kept everything so close to the vest." Eames tapped his fingers on the table contemplatively. "Layers of secrets. Always something else to uncover, a distraction."

Arthur was smiling very faintly. He sipped his coffee. "Yes. And people usually see what they want and discard the rest, especially if it's just a fairy tale."

"People didn't believe forging in a dream was possible, either," Eames said. "And yet, here I am."

"What's the quote?" Arthur drained the last dregs of his coffee. "I believe six impossible things before breakfast?"

"Am I meant to be Alice in this scenario?" Eames stood when Arthur did. "I do feel a bit like Alice coming through the Looking Glass."

Arthur shot him a wry look and slung his bag over his shoulder. "Come on, Alice," he said. "We've got work to do."

\---

"Eames, come on!"

Eames turned away from the blazing inferno that, until recently, had been a satellite office of Cobol Enterprises. Arthur was tugging one handed at a heavy metal door set into the street. He had a smudge of ash high on his cheekbone and his teeth were bared in a feral grin. Eames jogged over to help him with the door.

They dropped down into the catacombs with a soft thud. Eames could feel his shoes sink in the dust coating the floor. Arthur shoved a flashlight in his hand and clicked his own on, a circle of light illuminating the limestone brick walls. 

"This way," Arthur said, heading deeper into the tunnel.

Eames turned on the flashlight Arthur had given him and followed, half expecting to hear sounds of pursuit, but there was nothing but the shush of their feet on the floor and his own breath. There was no light, aside from their two small circles. The air was humid and at least fifteen degrees warmer than the surface. He was soon sweating in his wool overcoat. It was hard to believe there was a whole city above their heads, people going about their day, cars and buses ferrying passengers, all of them none the wiser. He had never been a fan of small dark spaces, and he could feel the weight of Odessa pressing down.

He was soon completely turned around. The tunnels themselves didn't seem to follow any particular pattern; he could swear some of them looped back on themselves, but as far as he could tell, they weren't walking around in circles. Arthur stepped through a rusted metal doorway, the door long gone. The damp silence felt suffocating, all of a sudden.

"Don't you think burning down their building was a bit excessive?" he said to Arthur's back, more to distract himself than because he actually believed it.

Arthur glanced back at him, eyes glinting in the beam of the flashlight. "No," he said. "I already tried subtlety. They needed a clear warning." 

Eames paused to wrestle out of his coat, the beam of his flashlight bobbing over the walls as he juggled it from one hand to another. "You don't think they'll retaliate?"

"At this point, I think they'll cut their losses and leave me alone." Arthur stopped and waited for Eames to catch up, aiming his flashlight at the ground near his feet. "I hurt them enough for them to pay attention, but not so much they'll feel they need to save face. That's why I picked Odessa." He grinned. "The catacombs were a nice bonus."

Eames couldn't see much of Arthur's expression in the dim light. "Yes, they do make a convenient escape route. How did you even know they existed?"

"They're mostly old mining tunnels." Arthur leaned against the wall, disturbing some silt that rattled to the floor. "The Russians used them in World War II to harass the occupying Nazi forces." 

"I trust you know where we're going." Eames stopped, so close to Arthur their toes touched. "Something tells me it's easy to get lost down here."

"There's miles and miles of tunnels," Arthur said, and grinned. "Twenty-five hundred kilometers, give or take."

Eames put his hand on the wall next to Arthur's head and leaned forward. Arthur smelled like smoke and cordite, and faintly of cigarettes and coffee, shockingly strong after the limestone-filtered air of the catacombs. "I trust you," he said into the shell of Arthur's ear. 

"Eames." Arthur turned his head and their lips met. His good hand gripped the back of Eames's neck, the flashlight cold against his skin, holding him in place as their tongues met.

Shutting his eyes, Eames lost himself in the lushness of Arthur's mouth for a long moment. Finally, he broke away, resting his forehead on Arthur's. 

Arthur pressed one more kiss to Eames's mouth. "Let's get out of here," he said, ducking his head and out from under Eames's arm. 

The way they travelled was in more and more disrepair. They scrambled over loose scree and splashed through a shallow stream of water bisecting one of the manmade caverns. Arthur paused imperceptibly at the intersection of two tunnels before choosing the left-most passage. The walk seemed interminable, but Eames followed Arthur, eyes fixed on the back of his neck. He had said he trusted Arthur, and he meant it.

Eames half expected it to be evening already as he clambered up the ladder into painfully bright daylight. He squinted, then scrunched up his nose as the smell of the world hit him after the neutral mineral non-smell of the catacombs. They had emerged in a grassy walled courtyard. The air smelled of wet earth and growing things, cooking onions, car exhaust, human sweat. It was overwhelming. He breathed through his mouth as they wrestled the cover back over the opening. 

The house behind them was stately but had a dignified air of disrepair. Instead of going toward the house, though, Arthur headed toward the gate in the wall. "Not long now," he said.

Eames shrugged on his overcoat and followed him, shoving a hand in his trouser pocket and gripping his totem against the sudden feeling of unreality. What if this had all been a dream? He stopped just outside the gate, his breath coming in short gasps, his sweat turning icy in the cold air. How had he gotten here?

He counted cities and planes backward in his head. Odessa to Cairo, via Istanbul. Cairo to Mombasa. Mombasa to Nairobi. What had he been doing in Nairobi?

"Eames, hey. Hey, look at me." Arthur's hands were hot against his cheeks, the cast on his left hand rough against Eames's skin. 

Eames took a shuddering breath and met Arthur's eyes. They were a deep brown, concerned and a little fond. He gripped his totem in his pocket so tightly the grooves of the poker chip dug into his palm. "I -" he faltered. 

"What is it?" Arthur's hands slid over his face to his shoulders. 

"What if I'm asleep?" Eames grabbed Arthur's parka, pulling him close, whispering, "What if I'm still in my hotel room in Mombasa, dreaming?"

"Do you think I'm a projection?" This close, Eames could see the stubble shadowing Arthur's jaw, the fine lines around his eyes.

"No," Eames said hoarsely. "No, I don't think that." He pressed his face into Arthur's neck, warm against his clammy skin.

"Check your totem," Arthur said, his voice gentle. "It's real. I'm real. You're awake." He pulled away, and Eames just barely stopped himself from clutching at him, swallowing a half-voiced protest.

He drew his hand out of his pocket and Arthur turned, politely averting his eyes. Eames stared at the red and white chip in his palm. They were all there, the subtle imperfections he had painstakingly created - the divot in the edge, the faded logo of a casino that almost existed. The dice around the edges were out of order, and he smoothed his thumb over the top.

"Okay,' he said to Arthur's back. "Sorry."

"Don't be," Arthur said. His eyes were still soft as he looked at Eames. There was limestone dust in his hair, which had softened in the humidity of the catacombs and hung over his forehead in waves. The smudge on his cheek had graduated to a smear. 

Eames's heart constricted painfully. He stepped close, rubbing his thumb over the ash on Arthur's cheekbone. "We're both a bit worse for wear, it seems," he said. "Where to next?"

\---

Eames slept most of the flight to Glasgow. He had spent the day and night previous forging new papers for both Arthur and himself. New passports, new digital footprints, new everything. He didn't want to leave any kind of trail for Cobol to follow. Arthur had shrugged and left him to it, rolling himself up in the duvet on the bed in their hotel room after a long shower. 

"Better safe than sorry," Eames had said.

Arthur just grunted, his eyes shut, only his face visible in the cocoon he had made of the bedclothes.

"Your time with Dom has made you rather blase about the wrath of multinational corporations," Eames said, but Arthur didn't answer. He had already fallen asleep. 

Arthur had gotten them first class tickets and pointedly handed over a blanket from the flight attendant after they'd settled in their seats. Eames hadn't argued. His eyes felt like sandpaper and his mouth was dry with exhaustion. He only woke when the plane started to descend. 

They hired a car in Glasgow and Eames drove them to Oban to catch the ferry to South Uist in the Outer Hebrides. Before dropping the car off, they stopped at Tesco for provisions - soup packets, coffee, cream, bread. They looked like any other two idiots on holiday, Eames thought, as he wrestled with the shopping and his duffel while boarding the ferry. They stowed their bags in a locker and went out on deck for the beginning of the five hour trip. 

"It's an old family place." Arthur leaned against the rail and shaded his eyes against the glare of the sun. "My cousin looks after it, mostly."

Eames pressed their shoulders together, glad of the hat and gloves he had bought at the airport in Glasgow. "I've never been out this far," he said. "Never was one for cold weather."

The water in the harbor was glassy, reflecting the grey clouds in the sky. He remembered the first time he had seen the ocean as a child, on a school trip to a nature reserve outside of London. What had struck him most was the blue line of the horizon, unbroken by buildings or hills. He hadn't known the sky could be so open. It was terrifying and exhilarating, to see all that possibility spread out before him.

Since then, he had lived near the ocean if he could - Marseille, Varna, Mombasa. He felt that first thrill again, looking at the water melting into the horizon. The sea was exactly as magical as it had first appeared. More so, even, now that he knew people like Arthur lived there.

The chill wind from the sea once they were underway soon drove them inside. Arthur bought them both coffees and they sat on a bench in the aft of the ship in companionable silence. 

"Thanks," Arthur said. He was shredding the top of his empty cup, the paper curling under his fingers. He didn't look at Eames.

"Any time." Eames was only mildly surprised to find he really meant it. 

"You can ask me questions, you know." Arthur put his cup on the floor and rubbed his fingers on his slacks. "I'm not really good at," he paused, searching for the word, "sharing."

Eames turned sideways in his seat to face Arthur, tucking one leg up on the bench. "The thing I really don't understand, darling, is why you sent it to me in the first place."

Arthur finally looked at him, his mouth quirking up on one side. "I trust you, Eames."

"You must have known I would open it eventually." He ignored the warm feeling that had ignited in his chest, but he had a feeling it was showing on his face.

"You never could resist a secret." Arthur ducked his head, but Eames could see the dimple in his cheek as he smiled.

\---

Arthur woke him on a cold, crisp morning, eyes shining. Eames swam upwards out of a deep sleep with difficulty. "What?" he mumbled.

Holding both hands out in front of his face, Arthur wiggled the fingers of his left hand, now cast-free. "Took the cast off." The skin that had been under the cast was a shade paler than the rest.

"By yourself?" Still half asleep, Eames couldn't bring himself to be properly horrified at Arthur's cavalier use of a handsaw and garden shears. 

Arthur waved his concern away. "It's not like it's hard."

Giving in to impulse, Eames captured Arthur's hand and kissed his palm. "Bully for you," he said. "'M going back to sleep now."

"I want to go for a swim," Arthur said.

"It's the middle of winter and bloody cold." Eames pulled the blankets up over his bare shoulder.

"Come with me."

"No." Scrunching his eyes closed, Eames turned his face into the pillow. But he was properly awake now, his mind turning. Arthur wanted him to come, to be there while he changed, to watch him as he swam into the sea. It was a little, he thought, like being invited to see someone's soul. It was the last layer of Arthur's carefully constructed defenses, the impossible staircases and paradoxes, meaning hidden under other meaning and secreted away. 

He felt a sudden, visceral terror at the thought of revealing himself to Arthur in the same way, of peeling back the forgeries and the cons and the charming wit to reveal the very heart of himself. But then he thought - Arthur had already seen it. And sent him the box anyway.

Arthur poked his shoulder. "Come on, please?"

Eames grumbled, all through getting dressed in as many layers as humanly possible and a quick cuppa standing by the kitchen sink, but he went out with Arthur, in the end. Arthur never asked for much. Eames could read between the lines. He could write whole essays on the meaning of the word 'please' in Arthur's mouth.

Arthur was practically vibrating with barely restrained energy as they walked side by side down to the beach. He was carrying the wooden box under one arm, his parka blowing open in the wind, seemingly impervious to the cold. Eames pulled his hat further down over his ears and stuck his hands in the pockets of his overcoat, wishing he had thought to bring gloves.

It was just past sunrise, late at this time of year, and the clouds, scudding high across the sky, hadn't quite lost the rosy tone of the sun coming up over the horizon. They picked their way down the hillocks of beach grass ringing the secluded cove and out onto the sand. It was smooth and wind scoured, and the colors were clear like cut glass. The water was turquoise edging into dark azure, tipped with white froth. 

There was an old rowboat upside down on the sand near the back edge of the beach, and Arthur headed there, stepping quickly and lightly to avoid sinking into the sand. Eames closed his eyes against the wind and took a deep breath of the chill air. It was scoured clean by the rain and the wind from the night before, and salty on his tongue. It made the rest of the world seem very far away.

He trudged over to the rowboat as Arthur started stripping out of his clothes. He didn't shiver in the cold air, but Eames could see goosepimples raise the hair on his arms. When he was naked, he knelt in the sand and opened the box, lifting the skin out with gentle hands. 

"Am I to wait for you then?" Eames leaned against the hull of the boat gingerly, letting it take more of his weight gradually. 

Arthur looked up at him, his eyes somehow softer, larger, ringed with dark lashes like a seal's. "Yes, if you like," he said.

Eames crouched down and kissed Arthur. "Come back to me," he said.

Arthur returned the kiss with equal fervor. He stood, shaking out the skin and draping it over his shoulders. His teeth were sharp points in his mouth as he grinned at Eames before turning and walking down to the water. He pulled the skin tighter around his body and raised the head like a hood to cover his own.

Then, between one blink and the next, there was a seal in his place, edging out into the surf. He barked joyously, roughly, and dove into the water. Eames could see him, sleek and grey against the blue of the ocean, slipping in and out of the waves. He settled himself against the rowboat, semi protected from the wind by the boat and grass at his back. He pulled a slim paperback that he had found on one of the stacked bookcases in the cottage out of the inner pocket of his coat, but he didn't open it.

Instead, he looked out at the horizon, so wide he could feel it encircling the island at his back. Arthur had disappeared; diving beneath the waves or swimming far enough out to sea he was indistinguishable from the shadows under the water. Eames turned his collar up around his neck and leaned his head back on the boat, laughing at himself.

He was like the men in those fairy tales Mrs. MacConnell had told him, pining at the beach for his lost selkie lover. But he hadn't stolen Arthur's skin, and Arthur would come back.

Eames must have dozed off, despite the cold wind. He woke, startled, at a loud splash. Arthur strode up the beach, his skin flung over his shoulder, water streaming down his chest and over his legs. He looked every inch the fae creature he was in reality.

"You must be half frozen by now," Arthur said when he was close enough not to shout. He shook himself, water droplets flying in all directions. Folding the skin carefully, he laid it back in the box before pulling on his pants and shirt.

"Nothing a hot cup of tea won't fix." Eames got to his feet, feeling his joints creak a little from sitting on the cold ground. "But we should go somewhere warm next. The Maldives, Indonesia. Plenty of ocean for you, plenty of sun for me."

Arthur picked up the box and Eames's book where it had dropped into the sand. "Sea Fever?" he asked.

" _I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide / Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied_ ," Eames quoted. "We had to memorize it in school. Seemed appropriate."

Arthur made a thoughtful noise. He took Eames's hand as they walked up the beach to the path that led back to their cottage. His hair dripped seawater down his neck, darkening his collar. 

"I'm going to take a shower," Arthur said, once they were inside. He draped his coat over a kitchen chair.

Eames shrugged out of his own coat. "I'll put the coffee on."

"Eames." Arthur was still holding the box in his hands. He pushed it into Eames's hands. 

Automatically, he took the box, heavier than he remembered, now that he knew what it meant to Arthur. Eames couldn't quite parse the look in Arthur's eyes, something in between determined and terrified. But Arthur didn't scare easily.

"Keep it safe," Arthur said. He touched the top of the box briefly.

"Always," Eames said.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks as always to [knitwritezombie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missa_G/pseuds/Knitwritezombie) for being my first reader and grammar perfecter, and to [ponderosa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderosa121/pseuds/Ponderosa) for their invaluable insight.
> 
> I started this in May, obviously, but it got longer than I had planned, so here we are at the end of June. Happy belated MerMay? Arthur is a grey seal, in case you were wondering. The [Orkneyjar](http://www.orkneyjar.com/index.html) was my source for all things selkie. Full text of the poem "Sea Fever" by John Masefield [here](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/54932/sea-fever-56d235e0d871e). The catacombs in Odessa are in fact real, and I would like to go there someday.
> 
> As Arthur is Jewish (non practicing) in this fic but I am not, please do let me know if I got anything wrong and I will fix it. Comments and feedback welcome.


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